Thereupon, Afterwards
by Farewells
Summary: Bruce Wayne was a man of many regrets, but when all seemed lost, he did not hesitate in the face of impending death. He gave his life, and his sacrifice was pivotal in Doomsday's eventual defeat. As he laid dying, his body battered and broken, he had long accepted his own death. But she was unwilling, for as long as he breathes, Themyscira shall bring him back. [Spoiler/SlightAU]
**A/n:** My story follows the Movieverse except with one significant change. Instead of Clark, it was Bruce that fell in the final confrontation against Doomsday.

Since the premiere night, I have been hugely debating between which character I've wanted to pair Diana with, and ultimately coming to the conclusion that I would enjoy having her alongside Bruce more.

The main reason, is because of their character dynamics. I think they're both broken and flawed in their own ways, and they're both battle hardened and have seen their fair share of conflict, loss, and corruption of power. She became distrustful of humankind, retreating to Themyscira after the world war, while he became cynical and unforgiving, his methods often violent and fatal. He grew cold, indifferent, he doesn't trust, and he sees the worst in people. While she's somewhat the opposite. She's warm, naive about the world (as she had spent most of her life on Themyscira), she's heated and often leaps into battle (while he's calculated), and above all, she always sees the best in people. So in a way, they're so similar, yet different.

Plus Clark already has Lois, he was the one with the bathtub scene after all!

The story revolves much around Bruce's recovery and his interaction with Diana. More of the plot shall be revealed in the second chapter.

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 **Chapter: 1**

For a single instance, he was unable to formulate even the smallest of a thought. And in the next, fiery anguish consumed him whole; it battled him into meek submission, his insides torn asunder, broken by an emerging brutality his body could not comprehend. He quivered, and the pain amplified with each desperate breath he sought; jarring, demanding, it was intensifying, and he was dying. His consciousness ebbed, like darkened pools of black, straining against the edge of his vision, tempting him with the sweetness of inevitability.

It was freezing, and he could barely breathe. Even underneath his mechanized suit of armor, it felt as though his body had lost all its warmth; engulfed unwillingly by an ocean of unrelenting winter, a grudging sink towards its unfathomable depth. None could miss the gaping hole by the side of his chest, the armor torn apart by a being of brute strength, as did his flesh and skin. He gasped, and each desperate intake of air only further drowned his lungs deeper in blood.

He heaved, and the darkness fluttered ever closer; reminiscent of the daunting dreams that haunted his turbulent nights; it loomed over him, like the ebbing of horizon's twilight, the coming of night's bats, threatening to turn the skies black. He coughed, and a splutter of blood caked his exposed chin in crimson paint. He was choking on his own blood, and each powerful exchange of fists and steel in the background, still blasted heavily in his eardrums. But he wasn't worried, not anymore.

He was wrong, and it didn't pain him to admit it. Perhaps in all his years of fighting, he had turned cynical to the one thing he needed most – trust. He trusted Alfred, but the kind old butler had been there from the very start; before the murder of his parents, before his training, before the crime fighting, and before, Batman. There was no reason to trust another, but now, he knew. The Alien, as powerful as he was, never meant any of them harm.

He only wished he could have come to that conclusion earlier. The irony, of being the world's greatest detective, yet not seeing Lex Luther's invisible hand behind all of their initial strife, all the unnecessary conflict.

Alfred was right; the fever, the rage, the powerlessness, it had turned him cruel, and blind.

But redemption came forth, and his atonement was realized. Clark Kent was as much a monster as he was, but also, as human as he could ever be. And if he had to die in order to defeat Lex's monster, and for him to leave the world in _his_ hands – then so be it.

He knew that the only way to weaken Doomsday, to give them three a last fighting chance, was with his last remaining Kryptonite grenade. His weapon was useless, ripped to shreds by the monster's initial assault, and his throwing arm dislocated by the following shockwaves. The only thing left, was to get close enough.

And he did, before Doomsday's turned its attention towards him, and struck his regenerating limb right through the armored batsuit. He heard the alarms blare, something about a punctured lung, and in the next moment, he was launched across the air. He crashed, and darkness welcomed.

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The battle was over. But no battle was without its sacrifices. She understood the notion of such a victory, but there was an unwilling acceptance. She followed the caped figure as they flew towards where the batsuit was last seen. The man was a lot faster than she was, but it wasn't a race. The two of them settled gently around the broken carcass, trying to avoid disturbing the precarious rubble that hung unsteadily in their vicinity. Another woman was kneeling beside the fallen figure, the Amazonian did not recognize her, but from the way she exchanged looks with the caped figure, she assumed they were acquainted.

"His heartbeat," the man beside her spoke. "I can hear it. It's weak, fading. We must get him to a hospital now."

"No," she turned towards him, "there is no time. His heart is punctured, his lungs are beyond crushed. Your technologies cannot save him now."

"We cannot leave him to die!" the kneeling woman cried.

"Let him die a warrior's death," the armored woman spoke, "and the doors of Elysium shall be forever welcoming. He-"

 _Thump… Thump… Thump…_

She could hear it now, the man's unsteadily heartbeat, weak at first, but it grew only stronger with every passing second. She almost laughed – the Bat, unwilling to die even in death's face. It anyone could spit on Hades' welcoming smug, it was definitely the Bat.

"I am taking him," the caped figure said. "Metropolis General is just fiv-"

"Let me."

The two turned towards the speaking female.

"I can save him," she placed her hands onto the fallen batsuit, and with a screeching groan of metal, ripped its chest from end to end. She tossed the cover effortlessly to their side, a loud crash as it fell slammed against fallen rubble.

"What are you going to do?" the man asked.

She reached her hands into the suit, and with the gentlest of arms, lifted the dying man out of his makeshift coffin. She held him tenderly in her arms, like a protective parent, before turning to the caped figure. "I will bring him… to Themyscira."

Her boots dug into dirt, her muscles grew steady and taunt, and she was suddenly in the air, showering the remaining two with an explosion of dust, as only a trail of white remained where she sliced through the sky.

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He was drowning, but he was also flying. The wind blasted against his frail figure, but the sensations, like any other he felt, had subsided to the dullest of throbs at the back of his mind. He felt himself sinking, his extremities unresponsive, as though strapped to pieces of heavy cement that dragged him alongside their futile downwards spiral. He sank deeper, and his life faded with each weakening thump of his heart.

 _Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…  
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And upon the final beat, Bruce Wayne's heart completely stilled.

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 ** _A few weeks later..._**

Consciousness came almost too suddenly. He burst forth within constricting sheets, his chest in a painful heave as he gasped painfully for oxygen. His shoulder throbbed in varying contrasts, and he was vaguely aware of the silken blankets that wrapped his sweating form. He remained in his upwards position, sitting still for the longest time. When he eventually regained his composure, the first thing he noticed was the sound of waves coming upon land. The air felt different; cleaner, warmer, he was a long way from Gotham.

The room he was in was small, but adequate. Built on ground level and with wood, it resembled a hut more than anything else. His hand fell onto his bandaged chest; he remembered dying, the sweet envelopment of embracing darkness. Then pulled, roughly. He remembered muffled voices, hands, a female's touch, rough with callouses, but as gentle as can be.

His feet came upon the wooden floorboards, and he pushed himself upwards. He wobbled for a moment, before finding his balance; it would seem that he had been out for a long while. He stumbled towards the entrance, and pushed the door open.

Sunlight greeted him, along with the calls of seagulls. The waves were louder now, and he felt sand between his toes as he stared towards the endless expanse of ocean blue, as clear as the cloudless skies above.

He looked around him, and came upon a canopy of alluring green, trees that stretched ceaselessly across his horizons. Something peaked at the edge of his peripherals, and he held an arm to shade his eyes as he looked towards the towering shadows. The sun glinted in his path, and his breath caught at its magnificence. There were two colossal monuments, crafted in the likeness of warrior Amazonians. He came upon such depictions in his research into the enigma of Diana Prince, but never so up close, and so… monumental.

"You are awake."

He turned, and there she was. Gone was the elegant formal dress, but the woman was anything but inelegant. The salty ocean breeze crested her hair into a darkened halo, and her whitened toga, much akin to an ancient roman's, hung loosely in the afternoon's zephyr.

"Where… where am I?" he asked, but he had a feeling he already knew.

"Themyscira." She confirmed his suspicions. "You're in Themyscira."

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